Linger
by Drown Me In Blue
Summary: Ichigo's muse is his alone, and Hanataro is quite content to share a cozy afternoon in his coffee shop with the singer.


**Pairing: **_Hanataro Yamada x Ichigo Kurosaki_

**Music:** Dream_, by The Cranberries_

**Word count:** ~ 2600

**Rating:** T

**A/N: **_Dedicated the incredible, amazing __**Nekolover101**__. Sorry it isn't an M-rated one, but this story practically wrote itself._

* * *

_**Prompt 32: **__Linger_

* * *

"You know, you will have to actually put this album out someday," Tatsuki pointed out in what she probably thought was a reasonable voice.

Ichigo thought it was more of a "do this or I'll pound your head in with my national trophy" kind of tone.

Even so, he only offered a shrug in response, still bent over the battered notebook on the table. His pencil tapped a staccato rhythm on the wood, then paused, shifted to the beat of the song he was considering, and lifted. With a short nod to himself, he marked out a series of notes and a string of lyrics in shorthand, then sat back and took a sip of his coffee, looking faintly pleased.

Tatsuki, on the other hand, looked centimeters from homicide.

"One line?" she demanded, the pitch of her voice rising in tandem with her temper. "_One line_? Is that _all_ you're going to do today? What do I say to the record company? What do I say to my _agency_? _One line_?"

Dragging footsteps on the stairs interrupted her before her rant could get any louder, and Shinji hauled himself into the kitchen, brushing his rat's-nest of hair out of his face. He made a beeline for the coffeepot, but managed a wave at Tatsuki as he went.

"Lay off, Arisawa. Ya can't rush genius, right? And after the last three singles we put out all went straight to number one, I think the agency'll give us a bit o' leeway. 'Specially considering they were all from the same album."

If anything, that made Tatsuki bristle more. "_Leeway_? You're supposed to be _producing songs_, not lazing around a big house all day, hamming it up for the fans! Your next album is scheduled to begin recording in _four weeks_, and Ichigo only has a handful of songs done! Forgive me if I feel a bit of _urgency_ about you guys keeping your contract!"

Ichigo sighed and pushed away from the table, rubbing his eyes. "Tatsuki, I know you're worried, but stop. We're doing the same as we always do. You'll get your songs in time, and we'll meet the deadline. Just…lay off a bit, okay?"

For a moment, Tatsuki wavered, as though unsure of whether to do just that. Then, with an almost visible shift, the childhood-friend side of her took over for the professional-agent part, and she leaned right into Ichigo's face, teeth bared.

"_Fine_," she hissed, eyes narrowing. "But I swear, Ichigo, if you take even _one hour_ more than three weeks and six days, you're _dead_." With a low growl, she spun on her sensible heel and stalked out of the room. A moment later, the slamming of the front door made the whole house tremble on its foundation.

"That went well," Love said in amusement, peering around the corner of the banister.

"Coward," Hiyori muttered, kicking him the rest of the way into the kitchen.

"You didn't come out, either," Rose pointed out, helping his friend off the floor and then shoving Shinji away from the coffee to get his own.

Now that Tatsuki was gone, the entire band was congregating, Ichigo noted with some amusement. Kensei was still conspicuously absent—probably worried that Tatsuki would come back. Rose and Love had waited her out, and Hiyori had probably been sat on to keep her from making a scene, as she and Tatsuki clashed more often than not. Mashiro was also absent, probably bugging Kensei. She had probably dragged Lisa with her, because Tatsuki was _not_ appreciative of the other woman's attempts at flirting. Even the ever-courteous Hachi was missing, safely ensconced in his studio with the artwork for their next album. Shinji was probably the only one stupidly brave enough to risk their agent's wrath—either that, or he had drawn the short straw this morning.

"Short straw?" Ichigo asked, betting it was the latter.

"Yep," Shinji confirmed, grimacing faintly. "Hiyori made me come down. If it'd been up to me, I would have left you to Arisawa's mercy."

"Asshole." Ichigo rolled his eyes, but couldn't dredge up more than the most basic annoyance. That was Shinji, through and through. With a sigh, he grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair and shrugged into it, stuffing his pen into one pocket and the notepad into another before he jammed a hat onto his head and a scarf around his neck.

Shinji watched the contained violence of his movements with equanimity, well used to Ichigo's ways. Settling in the deserted chair, he slurped his coffee and raised a lecherous eyebrow. "Gonna go and molest your muse again, deathberry? When are you gonna introduce the rest of us?"

Ichigo flipped him off and snorted. "Yeah, right, bastard. He wouldn't be a muse if I paraded him in front of all you freaks, he'd just be traumatized. For _life_. See you later."

As he heads for the door, Kensei, just rounding the corner, freezes. "Whoa. _Whoa._ What if the Titanium Tomboy comes back?" He looks just shy of panicked, which isn't the best look on him, but which makes Ichigo snicker.

"Tell her I left for somewhere _far, far_ away, and not to look for me." He tossed the wide-eyes bassist a smirk. "Then just point her at Shinji and get out of the way."

Kensei snorted at that, and Shinji wailed, but Ichigo just waved and strode out the front door, into the winter morning. The wind was fierce, biting, and Ichigo hunched against it, drawing his collar up higher and cursing under his breath. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, flipped Shinji—who was making faces at him through the window—the bird, and headed for the small coffee shop at the end of the street. It was a cheerful place, neat and warm and homey, flooded with the scent of espresso and chocolate. Best of all, it was usually empty at this time of day, and Ichigo would get the place—and his muse—all to himself.

* * *

When he pushed open the door, the bell jingled brightly, and it made him smile. Already he could feel the threads of a melody whispering through the back of his mind, something sweet and lovely, with a heavier, brighter note underneath, and his hand slipped down to his notebook automatically. The words came more slowly, more gradually, soft counterpoint to the joy that lit up the barista's face when he saw who had come in.

"Ichigo," he said with a swift, small smile, still tentative even after all this time. "Why didn't you stay at home? The weather is nasty."

Ichigo smiled in return, taking a seat at the polished counter. "Hey, Hanataro," he greeted, leaning over and giving the smaller man a quick, soft kiss that made Hanataro flush dark red. The singer just smiled at the reaction. "Sorry, but I wanted to see you, maybe write a bit while I'm here."

Hanataro looked him over for a moment, something so utterly gentle in his eyes that it made Ichigo's chest ache in a good way, to see it there and to know that _he_ had put it there. Then the black-haired man smiled that sweet, shy smile that Ichigo had fallen in love with, and whispered, "As—as long as you're happy, Ichigo." He reached across the gleaming counter, tentative and nearly timid until Ichigo caught his hand, twining their fingers together.

In the background, the soft strains of the radio spun through the silence, a man's rich tenor singing, supported by a weave of two other voices, one male and one female.

"_Open up your heart,  
__I'll set you free,  
__Open up your eyes  
__And can't you see?  
__Never been so sure,  
__Gift from above,  
__Never been so sure  
__That this was love."_

Ichigo cocked his head slightly, listening, and chuckled, squeezing Hanataro's hand a little tighter.

"That's your song," he murmured. "The first one I ever wrote in here, and I wrote it for you, even though you didn't know my name or my face. My muse."

Hanataro laughed a little, too, and leaned forward to kiss Ichigo delicately, shyly. He was still blushing, but that was normal. _This_ was normal, for them. When they drew apart, Hanataro met Ichigo's eyes with that core of solid, immovable steel that had first drawn him in and smiled, gripping his fingers in return.

"Only to you, Ichigo," he said, shaking his head in a mix of disbelief, exasperation, and affection that he had become familiar with ever since this bright, fierce, sharp man stumbled into his shop muttering about deadlines and crazy agents, and had simply…never left. He couldn't say that he ever wanted him to, either.

"Good," Ichigo said firmly, and then drew back, pulling out his notebook and shrugging out of his coat. "Do you have any of that Turkish coffee you made last time?"

Hanataro turned to get it, humming along to the radio under his breath, and Ichigo leaned back in his chair, pencil already flying over the paper. Outside, the wind whined past the windows and the doors, but the shop was full of the warm, sharp scent of coffee, and kept out the cold.

And if Ichigo lingered a little longer over his coffee that people normally did, or if Hanataro hovered around Ichigo more than he strictly needed to tend to a customer, well, they both had their excuses.

The weather was bad, and the coffee shop was empty, and they could both linger all they wanted.


End file.
